


If I Look Hard Enough Into the Setting Sun

by wanderingaesthetic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 00:24:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2208672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingaesthetic/pseuds/wanderingaesthetic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regulus doesn't want to destroy the Wizarding World. Regulus doesn't want to destroy anything. Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Look Hard Enough Into the Setting Sun

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was written for a long ago Regulus-centered livejournal fest. The prompt was The Rolling Stones' "Paint It Black."

Regulus crouches with his back to the stones of a low garden wall while keeping watch on two things: his comrade at the corner of the house and the back door of the McKinnons' home. His eyes swing back and forth between them. He watches, but the Death Eater makes no signal to move forward and the door does not open to reveal any fighting or fleeing McKinnons. Back and forth: the Death Eater, the door, the Death Eater, the door. Each time his gaze seems to settle a little longer on the door.

Something about it bothers him, chafes at the back of his mind, but it is just a door, plain, windowless, made of weathered planks and painted a bright, cheery red.

Perhaps it is the color that bothers him.

It is an early morning in midsummer. His ears are hyper alert, attuned to every sound, but he hears only the twittering of birds. The sunlight gradually brightens from gray to yellow as he watches the Death Eater, the door, the Death Eater. In the darkest parts of the night, acts of ambush and violence would seem only natural, and the wizards who perform them would seem to be part of the night itself, faceless embodiments of terror. The color of the door would be an irrelevant detail, if he could perceive it at all.

In this morning light he is very aware that he is a man in a costume, hiding behind a mask. Sweat is creeping down his spine. Dew is creeping into his robes, and he is crouching between a stone wall and a hydrangea bush in a messy garden, staring at a charming red door with stone eaves. Place a few chickens clucking about, perhaps a wheelbarrow, and it would be the sort of scene old aunties hang on their walls.

Though not _his_ old aunties, of course.

Regulus shifts his weight, trying to relieve his tiring legs. _Ridiculous. Pathetic._ Regulus grumbles inwardly, not just at himself, crouching in the grass, or at his compatriot, a deeper shadow in the shadow of the house, but at the occupants of the house, the fools that had painted that _damned_ door the color of poppies and pinwheels. Did they think they would be letting their friends in through that door? Did they think that they would exit it to water the hydrangeas? They signed their own death warrant when they took the vows that inducted them into the Order of the Phoenix! Their friends would enter that door to salvage the remains of their possessions and the McKinnons would never exit it again except as corpses. Better to have painted it the black of night or the gray of ashes. Better to have painted it the black of funerals and the gray of corpse flesh.

Regulus thinks—Regulus _knows_ —he is ready. He is prepared in the black of his hair and the gray of his eyes. Blacks are born Death Eaters.

His partner gives the signal, a simple overhead wave of the arm, and strides towards the door. Regulus follows, feeling the subtle shift in the air as the universe goes wrong and witches and wizards seek to kill one another. Not so long ago, he would have fought back the urge to run in this moment, resisting by reminding himself that could not leave his fellows to risk death without him, nor could he afford to lose face. Now he does not bother. Now he feels nothing but the emotions he consciously calls up, the blacker things he will need to perform dark magic.

His partner attempts the door knob. People can be careless even in these suspicious times. It rattles. Regulus is secretly pleased. In no mood for subtlety, he raises his wand and calls up the destructive force of his magic in a sharp thrust, half spell and half brute force. The door buckles inward with a groan and a series of sharp cracks, taking part of its frame with it. The destruction is not quite as satisfying as Regulus hoped. Perhaps he should have set it on fire, but there is no time to ruminate on it. His partner is already charging forward. Regulus scrambles over his handiwork, taking a quick glance around a modest kitchen. The cupboards are painted blue. A calendar on the wall depicts a prancing, big-eyed kneazle. He hears his cohorts’ feet pounding up the stairs, a woman shrieking curses, some magical, some mere invectives, and a crashing of breaking glass and furniture. With his wand he draws a black line on the walls between the counter and the cupboards, following the line around the room, into the sitting room and under the stairs. He will detonate this line and collapse the house after his companions have completed their work. All according to routine.

Regulus finishes his line and steps quietly up the stairs to assist his comrades, very aware of the minute creak of his boots. "You won't have _us,_ you bastards!" A man shouts from above. There is a heavy thud that shakes the house, followed by the low laughter of his fellows. They did have him.

He enters the McKinnons' bedroom wary but unafraid, the sixth black robe crowded into a small room. Over a shoulder he sees four wands trained on a woman, barefoot and in her nightgown, sitting on the floor at the foot of her bed in a pool of quilts. Regulus recognizes her from Hogwarts, a few years older than him. Ravenclaw. Pureblood. Marlene. _Marlene…?_ He can’t remember her maiden name. The angle her left leg takes is distinctly wrong. She is breathing in harshly through her nose, as if the act of drawing air into her lungs is the only thing staving off hysteria. Her eyes are wet, and her husband's head is resting in her lap. He is not breathing at all.

"Tell us what you know of the Order and we may spare your life," says a low, silken voice that can only belong to Lucius Malfoy. This is only a formality. They are not here to gather information from Marlene McKinnon, but to kill her. Even so, the amount of information they have gained in the past through a bit of cursory questioning and torture is surprising.

"I'll tell you _nothing,"_ she grinds out between breaths.

" _Crucio,"_ spits another voice. Mrs. McKinnon tries not to scream, a respectable effort that nonetheless ends in a throat-tearing shriek. Her attacker lets her rest for a moment.

"Now, we know the homes of your sister Diedra... in Whitehaven, wasn't it?" Malfoy continues, his voice calm and conversational. "And your parents?”

"38 Bowery Lane," a Death Eater behind him supplies.

 "Yes, thank you," Malfoy says as he leans forward. "Aren't you concerned for their safety?"

"What's to stop you from killing them anyway?" She growls. She is quite a witch, Regulus must admit. Her teeth are red where she bit her tongue. She is put under the Cruciatus curse again; this time she does not resist the pain. She screams, and her hands scrabble against her quilts and her dead husband's chest.

Regulus catches a motion in the corner of his eye. His hand tightens on his wand, but it is just a curtain, fluttering in the breeze from a broken window. Mrs. McKinnon stops screaming, and for a moment there is utter silence, until she starts laughing.

"What is it that you _want!?"_ She shrieks and continues laughing, sounding half mad and looking more than half it with her bloodied mouth.

"The names and locations of members of The Order of the Phoenix. We offer, generously, I might add--"

"No. No. _Noooooooo."_ She shakes her head as she laughs again. _"_ Not that. I know that. You want to kill and maim and rape those who stand against you that I _know! I know!_ But what do you get out of it!? What do you hope to hold in the end!? Thirteen generations of wizards on my father's side. Not a _drop—“_ she puts a strange emphasis on this word, her voice breaks as she shrieks it, _“—_ of muggle blood among them! How many of _you_ can say as much!? How many pureblood witches of childbearing age are there in Britain? _Hmm?_ How many have you killed? How many have been killed on _your_ side? And not a one of you took Muggle Studies because if you did you could do arithmetic! You'll be scrambling after every drop of magical blood you can find, looking into the setting sun of our world with nothing to stop it. Where will your bright and unstained future be _then?"_ For a woman disarmed, beaten, and soon to be dead, she looks fierce and proud, as if she has waited her life to say these words to these men. Perhaps she has.

"Are you volunteering to bear us pureblood children, blood traitor?" Regulus starts at the voice near his ear, oily and lightly Slavic in accent. Mrs. McKinnon’s voice had held him transfixed, as if she were speaking prophecy. The hairs on the back of his neck are standing on end. No one else seems to have been so affected. The small crowd snickers at the jest.

"Never in your best daydreams," she spits.

"Even under the Imperius curse?"

"Try it." Only someone confident of resisting that curse would offer that challenge to a room full of Death Eaters, but even so, Regulus has no desire to see the result. He presses through the robes to face her, raising his wand and summoning a black rage.

" _Avada Kedavra."_ Marlene McKinnon slumps over the chest of her husband.

"I couldn't stand to listen to her anymore," Regulus says by way of explanation. It's true.

"Besides, we can't afford to waste time. We've got her parents and sister to get to."

 

***

 

Regulus watches three more people die that morning. The Death Eaters do their work as quickly as they can, but as Marlene McKinnon's mother dies, Aurors apparate into her house, following the Death Eaters’ bloody path. They flee before them, not bothering to lay the Dark Mark in their haste.

When he arrives at Grimmauld Place, there is someone waiting for him on the step, someone dressed as he is, in the black robes of a Death Eater, but no mask. Regulus keeps a tight grip on his wand until he recognizes the face framed by curly brown hair.

“Evan?” Regulus asks, glancing around the street before he approaches.

“Regulus.”

Evan Rosier nods down at him and gives him a wide grin. Regulus returns it. Evan is a couple of years older than him, but they’ve know each other since they were small, and they played on the Slytherin house quidditch team together. Evan played Beater to Regulus’ seeker, and on the pitch or off it, Regulus has always known that Evan had his back.

"That was very smooth back there,” Evan says now.

"What was?" Regulus asks, honestly confused.

Evan mimes casting a spell and says "Bam! 'Couldn't stand to listen to her anymore.' _Very_ smooth _._ Like someone in a play."

Regulus smiles nervously. Unsure of how to respond to that, he begins to unfasten his outer robe. He has been sweltering in the heat of the day, and he is safe here as he is anywhere. “You were there too, then?”

“Yeah, took down that lunk Jack McKinnon, but Travers took him out. Lucius and Travers will probable get the accolade for this, but honestly, it should be you."

"What makes you say that?"

"You upped the ante,” Evan says slowly as he gives Regulus a sideways look. “I don't think we were going to get her family, not really, not in the middle of the day, but after you did that... Well, they had to."

Regulus pauses in shrugging off his robe. Is that true? Did he really cause three people to die today?

"In any case," Evan continues. "I haven't seen you in a while. Not your face, anyway."

When _was_ the last time he saw Evan? Or any of his friends? When was the last time he left the house other than for the cause, for that matter?

"Sorry, I... haven't felt very social, lately."

Evan waves a dismissive hand. "No need to apologize! We’ve all been busy, and I could send you an owl every now and then and I haven't. But, I heard your voice today and thought ‘When was the last time I spoke to Regulus?’ So I came here to head you off and ask if you’ll let me buy you lunch.”

“ _Let_ you buy me lunch?” Regulus says, stepping up next to Evan and taking on an air of false hauteur, an old joke between them, the Blacks being able to claim about three more generations of blood purity than the Rosiers. “I _command_ it.”

The two giggle for a moment before Evan claps Regulus on the shoulder and says.

“Alright, I need to get cleaned up and changed. I was up at the arse-crack of dawn for that raid and didn’t shower. I probably smell. How’s Alfador’s?” He pulls out a pocket watch and consults it. “1:30?”

“Sounds good,” says Regulus.

“See you then.” With that, Evan trots down the steps and disapparates.

 

***

 

Regulus waits for his friend amidst a dozen empty tables outside a Diagon Alley café. Now that he has changed into lighter clothing, the bright sunshine is pleasant instead of scorching. A waiter takes his drink order and leaves in conspicuous haste. Regulus wonders why for only a second. He is a young wizard, well dressed, and perfectly at ease. He may as well have the Dark Mark burned onto his forehead rather than his arm.

Most of Regulus’ memories of this street feature bustling crowds of witches and wizards, but today that crowd is sparse, consisting of only a few brave souls coaxed out by the sunny day. It has been this way for a while now, despite the fact that the Dark Lord has not made his presence known in this place in some time. That last time _had_ been a memorable day, however. Regulus recalls it with a small, wry smile. He had been fifteen then and had not yet joined the ranks of the Death Eaters. 

A trio of young women passes a few feet away from Regulus. They are wearing muggle clothes, shorts and sundresses. Regulus’ gaze scrapes over them, resting briefly on a pair of shapely legs and the view afforded by a low neckline. As she draws near, one of the girls smiles down at him tentatively. Regulus snaps his head away from her eyes to stare sightlessly across the street.

No witch dressed like that had proper pride, but that wasn’t why he had turned away. The brief fantasy he had entertained of her hadn’t involved a kiss or a tender look, or even a hand on bared flesh, but the girl, bruised, bleeding, and begging at his feet.

A middle-aged wizard with a top hat and bushy sideburns passes where the girls had been moments before. Feeling Regulus’ stare, he glances toward him. Their eyes meet for a moment before the man passes him by, quickening his pace a little. _Do they sense something about me?_ Regulus wonders. By way of experiment, he watches each passerby in turn. A pair of teenage boys don’t seem to notice him at all, but when Regulus looks into the face of a woman with her hand around that of her toddling son, the woman scoops up the child and actually crosses to the other side of the street to avoid passing near him. Regulus looks down at the table and shields the street from his view with one hand.

_I’m a monster. They see it, something in my eyes._

As disturbed as he is by this, a part of him is also filled with a savage excitement. _Well should they be afraid. I’ve seen and committed horrors they have only imagined, and it is likely that one day in the future, one of them will be at the end of my wand._

He looks back up at the street. In his mind, the cobblestones are cracked and broken, the gaps between them filling with blood. The storefronts are filling with smoke, and all around him are screams.

 

***

 

When Regulus snaps out of his reverie, he looks at his watch to see that Evan is late. He waits for him fifteen minutes, and then thirty. All the ice in his glass has melted, and he has a sick feeling in his stomach. Evan almost surely hasn’t forgotten, not in so short a time. Regulus apparates back home to contact Mulciber, his immediate superior among the Death Eaters. His suspicions are transferred up the chain of command, but by the time the Death Eaters get there, the Aurors have already left, and Evan is already dead.

 

***

 

Regulus wanders the streets, up Diagon Alley and into Knockturn, slipping between robes and not looking at the people in them, going nowhere in particular. The soles of his feet hurt, but if he stops he feels a horrid nervous energy trying to burst out of his skin. Walking makes it better, but ever so slightly. Other people have died, other Death Eaters, other comrades, but never a friend. He tries to pull Evan’s face into his mind, his nose bloodied after their final quidditch match of fifth year, the one where they had won the cup. It had been a happy moment, but Regulus can’t keep it in his mind’s eye. It keeps being replaced by the face of Marlene McKinnon, and her screaming, bloody mouth. _You'll be scrambling after every drop of magical blood you can find, looking into the setting sun of our world with nothing to stop it!_

Now the streets are dark, and the night air is chilly after the sweat of the day. Regulus apparates to Hogsmeade, the first place he can think of to the north where the sun hasn’t yet gone down. He plops onto a bench and stares into the sun, setting in orange splendor over the treetops, thinking what the funeral will be like, the long line of black carriages come to mourn his friend, someone they didn’t know, someone Regulus knew. If he stares hard enough maybe his vision will darken the same way everything else has.

When the mark burns, he jumps to his feet, eager to tear down their world and everything in it.

 

 


End file.
